


Wait For It

by azrielen



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Afterlife, Alexander Hamilton remains a little shit even in death, Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, Gen, Heaven, Hugs, Illnesses, Post-Traumatic Stress, Vaguely Religious Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azrielen/pseuds/azrielen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for the hamiltonprompts.tumblr.com prompt: “Upon his arrival in heaven, Hamilton greets Burr with ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it? C'mon, your Theodosias have been waiting for you.’”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait For It

In hindsight, Aaron thinks as the sweet pull of the darkness becomes too hard to resist, he should have done this sooner. Here in this final moment he can admit that his resistance to death was just another thing “put off ‘til tomorrow” and the clarity gained from his inaction on his own demise was that he himself was an idiot. Two years. Two years bedridden and immobile after the stroke that had wracked his body and--

…..

…..

…..

…..

Bright.

Or...not bright, but _present_. Aaron isn’t sure where he is or what is happening. There had been the darkness, and he did not seem to have any sense for how long it had been dark, and now there is this: the bright sensation of something touching him down to his very core, something asking questions without words, and then---

He’s in a garden. A pair of white gates shine in the perfect light, reflecting a myriad of colors in their facets. He moves forward and they close behind him by some silent, unseen mechanism. The garden courtyard is in the height of bloom, a dazzling array of colors rioting for his attention over the calm bubbling of small fountains. A cobblestone pathway leads off into the distance, its destination obscured by low-hanging branches. Without thinking, he moves to follow it.

Behind him, someone speaks.

“Mister Burr, sir?”

The lush garden melts away into the murky puddles of a New York City street. It’s 1776 and _that voice_ is so full of false confidence laid over a hard edge of desperation. They’re both so incredibly _young_ \--

Aaron blinks. He’s back in the garden, and he can’t help but reply, “Who’s asking?”

Alexander laughs. It’s a sound he’s never heard before, a clear and unburdened thing, and so unlike the Alexander he’d known that he has to turn around and check.

Alexander Hamilton is leaning against the inside of one of the garden's ivy-colored walls. Either Aaron had not seen him while passing through the gate, too absorbed in the riot of color and life beyond it, or Alexander had appeared out of thin air behind him just to be dramatic. He wouldn’t put it past the man to move Heaven itself to make an entrance.

What strikes Burr most as Alexander pushes himself away from the wall is the _ease_ of him. He doesn’t rush and for once he isn’t already talking and expecting everyone around him to keep up. Alexander strolls over the grass to stop in front of Aaron, thumbs tucked in the small pockets of his jacket. They’re of a height, as they ever were in their youth, and Alexander is the spitting image of the young man that had approached him on the street so long ago. If anything, he looks like a healthier version of that person, no longer half-ragged with his clothes hanging off his frame. His hair is still long, falling in a sleek cascade around his shoulders instead of tied back, and his large eyes still shine with some intangible hunger, but he looks...relaxed. Aaron thinks his eyes must be playing tricks, but he can see more clearly now than he ever has before. Perhaps this isn’t Alexander at all, because he’s certain no one had ever placed that man’s name and “relaxed” in the same thought before now.

Alexander extends a hand to him and Aaron takes it with only a slight hesitation. He's unsure what to expect, but the hand that grips his is warm and strong, vital in a way that seems so foreign after so long…

It's been so long...

Alexander pulls hard on his hand, dragging Burr into an embrace. It isn’t until Alexander grips the back of his neck and whispers against his ear, “It’s over, Aaron. Shh. You’re safe now. It’s over…” that Aaron realizes he had stopped breathing in favor of shaking.

Later, when he recounts his entrance into Heaven, he’ll leave out the part where he wept into Alexander Hamilton’s shoulder for an indeterminate amount of time over the realization that he _could_. He could see clearly and hear everything and fill his lungs with the scent of the grass crushed under their heels. He could stand. He could _walk_. He could--

“Shhhh,” Alexander hushes him again, giving the back of his neck a gentle squeeze, and Aaron gathers enough of himself to embrace the man back. They stay that way for a long time, the foreign sensation of Alexander’s arms around him keeping him grounded in this miraculous new body; in this miraculous new place. When they part, Aaron finds himself changed. Where before he had felt unmoored from the ground, now he can feel the cobblestones firm beneath his feet. He can feel the wind on his face as a pleasant breeze blows through, catching in Alexander’s hair and bringing with it the distant sound of voices. He closes his eyes to concentrate on the sound, but snaps them open again when the darkness behind his eyelids is too much. Or perhaps too little...

“You hear them, don’t you?” Aaron’s attention comes back to Alexander when the other man speaks, and oh. Here now is the man he knew, bouncing on his toes with barely-contained energy. Alexander always had a devilish smile, and perhaps it’s blasphemy to think it such in this place, but there’s no other way to describe the expression the steals over Alexander's face as he takes Aaron by the arm as if to lead him off down the path. When Aaron doesn’t budge, Alexander turns back to him in exasperation. “Still stalling, Burr? And here I thought death might make a better man of you.”

For the first time in many long years, Aaron Burr smiles. “It didn’t manage to make a more patient man of you, Hamilton, despite how often I prayed for such a miracle.”

“There’s that Princeton wit I remember.” Alexander’s comeback is undercut by the fact that he can’t seem to stop himself from grinning. He makes another attempt to pull Aaron along and this time Aaron allows himself to be led.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Come now, your Theodosias have been waiting for you.”

At those words, Aaron’s breath catches, and for a moment he thinks he can hear their laughter on the breeze. 

Alexander can’t lead him fast enough.

**Author's Note:**

> So I veered slightly from the prompt in the placement of the line, but I just couldn’t help myself.
> 
> “Put off ‘til tomorrow” is a reference to a most fitting quote attributed to Aaron Burr: "Never do today what you can put off till tomorrow. Delay may give clearer light as to what is best to be done."
> 
> Aaron Burr died in obscurity after suffering a stroke that left him immobile for two years. Thanks for the sads, Wikipedia.


End file.
